


Cold Damage

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1631750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter outside of Boston.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Damage

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to montana_crows for the low-down on. Uh. Montana. 
> 
> Written for ladygray99

 

 

You wake up, and it's cold.

~~~

You wake up, and it's cold. 

~~~

You wake up, and your brother has an armful of stuff from the vending machines. Corn chips. A couple of those strange spongy chocolate cakes that remind you of Little Debbie's, except the stuff in the middle doesn't quite taste like it usually does. Cool Ranch Doritos and a pack of those cheese things that the two of you have been, by mutual unspoken consensus, trying to avoid for as long as possible. 

Afterwards, he gets up and puts the TV on a little louder. Over an infomercial for some kind of knife that will make the fancy kind of fries: 

"Girl at the desk says she'll give us a ride to 7-11 when she gets off shift," Connor says. 

~~~

Correction: it isn't actually that cold inside the motel room, but when you go outside to smoke, Montana is cold and white up in the hills and gray closer to the Interstate. If you stay close to the building, it's a little protection from the wind, which means that you can keep a light without having to keep both hands out, and that doesn't work anyways because it is so goddamn cold. The thermometer hanging between the Coke machine and the one that you and Connor have been living out of has a bluebird on it, and it goes down to twenty-five below zero. Right now, it's more or less bottomed out, and after you're standing out there a while, smoking and thinking, switching hands back and forth so that you can take turns warming one up, then the other. It always hurts to go back inside because the skin on your legs, on your face, will ache for a good fifteen minutes afterwards. It's too cold to walk anywhere.

The corner of the window next to the checkout desk twitches up, and maybe somebody waves to you. You wave back. 

Connor thinks that Pa will be back from visiting friends at Deer Lodge by the end of the week. 

It's been two weeks since the end of the week. 

~~~

On the other hand, it isn't like the two of you haven't been ditched before. When you and Connor were fifteen each, you and Connor came back from working at Staples, where Connor had a thing for the girl who worked register five when the two of you were supposed to be doing stock in the back room, and Ma had cleared out. She didn't even leave anything in the oven warming, and the two of you thought, at first, that she was just drunk again with that Ukrainian friend of hers who she worked at the hospital with, but two days in, you got the bright idea to actually check her bedroom. 

All the drawers were pulled open, and Ma's little figure of the Virgin was gone from the dresser at the foot of bed. 

Connor checks your eyes out with that pen flashlight that he bought at that rest stop in Missouri, and he says your left pupil is still acting a little funny, but the right one looks fine. The beating you took in St. Louis didn't have lasting effects; the torn ligaments from the fall in Tampa are mostly healed. The scar from the first bullets in Boston is clean.

Connor takes the ride out with the girl after the end of her shift and comes back three hours later with a 7-11 bag containing two packs of gum and a can of Pringles. 

~~~

Connor thinks that Dad is going to be back at the end of the week, but you were actually paying attention at check-in, unlike Connor, who spent the whole time trying to chat up the check-in gilr while Pa was paying. He must have put down - there were four hundreds and a couple fifties. 

A double is $150 a week. 

When you woke the next morning, Pa was long gone. In fact, the space where the car had been was half-gone, mostly filled in with snow. 

~~~

You wake up, and it's cold. 

~~~

You wake up, and it's cold. 

~~~

You wake up, and you find that Connor has taken the last fucking cigarettes from the pack that you've been sharing because he was too _stupid_ to pick up some more at the 7-11 when he was there, so you go down to the cigarette vending machine in the hallway and because it's been supporting your habit and Connor's habits for three weeks, the only thing left in it are menthols. You think about it for a second, recover your manhood, go back into the room to watch some TV, and then decide that no, you are not too manly to smoke menthols, so you go, put a dollar bill in, then kick the side of the cigarette machine until it drops a pack. 

The menthol burns your throat, and it kinda looks like somebody is waving at you from the window next to the checkin desk, except you know that Connor's rosary isn't on the bedside table. His Glock and silencer are. 

The girl got off shift half an hour ago. 

~~~

You wake up, and it isn't cold: in fact, you wake up, and it is achingly, painfully hot. Your skin feels as though it is being peeled off an inch at a time over your whole body at once, which makes no sense, but it fucking hurts, and the steam is thick in the bathroom. Connor dumped you in the shower with all of your clothes on, including your boots, and when you wake, you realize that you must have been struggling to get out of the shower, and that is why he has one of your arms pinned and his knee in the small of your back. He seems surprised that you've woken up, and yeah, you remember kind of wandering away from the motel without really thinking about it. Him and the girl must have found you. 

Hot shower water is coming down around you both, and you realize that Connor is in the shower with you. The fabric of his t-shirt sticks to your arm, and when you flip over and palm his cock through his jeans, he stops moving, and then you fumble through the curtain and grab -- you grab complimentary toiletries. Shampoo/conditioner and some kind of soap and moisturizer. Maybe the motel is nicer than you thought. There is a little more fumbling, including your boots knocking against the sides of the tub, and Connor ends up underneath you, jeans down to his knees. You slick two fingers up with moisturizer and shove them into Connor. Living with Dad has improved both of your pain tolerances because you're hard despite the hot water burning down your cold-damaged skin, and Connor is hard despite the fact that neither of you has done this for years since those first days when Ma left and it was just the two of you in the apartment, the two of you at Logan, three days late, trying to figure out where your mother had gone to and why the two of you, at fourteen, were alone in the world. 

Life with Pa is almost exactly as lonely, but you, Murphy, are pretty sure that it hurts more. 

When the girl outside asks if everything is OK, you hit Connor in the back of the head, and Connor mouths that the door is locked, he locked the door, and then, Connor, as best as he can with your cock four inches into his ass and three more on the way, says that his stupid brother is just being -- being an -- he can't finish the sentence because you're coming inside him, and the two of you stay in the bathroom until the girl says, kind of apologetically, that she really needs to get on home. The door slams. 

~~~

You wake, and Pa is sitting at the foot of the bed. 

It's cold. 

 


End file.
